


Tanked

by Lightspeed



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alcohol, Body Hair, Drinking, Drunken Kissing, Drunken Shenanigans, Fire, M/M, Paddling, Pantslessness, Sharing Clothes, That Guy At A Party With An Acoustic Guitar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:34:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hard-won furlough is celebrated in spades by the whole team, a night of debauchery and chicanery that would be talked about for years by those who could still remember any of it.  Somehow Heavy found himself Medic’s keeper after the doctor overindulged, and found he had one more thing he wanted to indulge in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tanked

“We are gonna get frickin' tanked tonight!” Scout crowed, surveying the load of boxes and bottles in the bed of Engineer's truck. He couldn't help but grin as he handed out a case of beer to Sniper, waiting beside the vehicle.

“'S been a long time since our last furlough. We earned this,” Engineer replied, handing off a paper bag full of bottles to Medic, who peeked inside. “Tomorrow, once the hangover wears off, we're free for three weeks.”

“Three weeks without yer ugly mugs, I don't know how I'll ever survive,” Scout teased, picking up the last box and hopping out of the truck with ease.

“I'm just happy to see you bought more than beer,” Medic commented, sifting through the bag with one hand. “You know how Heavy doesn't drink unless it tastes sweet.”

“I can respect a man who don't indulge, but it's pretty funny watchin' the big guy with his girl drinks,” Engineer replied with a crooked grin. “I couldn't leave 'im out. Where's he at, anyway? Figures he'd leave the heavy liftin' to us when he's off the clock.”

“He's helping Pyro in the kitchen with food. They're working on some kind of ludicrous bean dip and I'm not sure I want to know what else.”

“Well, if Pyro's handling the food, we're in good hands. Won't just be sandwiches.”

 

It had been a grueling six months, a straight-shot tour with no weekends, no liberty, no furlough. The fighting had been incessant, never-ending, and fierce. Tempers had flared, exhaustion had taken hold, and it seemed like it would never end.

When it did that morning, with Miss Pauling stopping in to visit to let the men know that after the day's combat they were on a three week furlough, the cheers could probably have been heard all the way across the field in the RED base. Pyro had taken the mousy woman gently by her hands and danced her in a circle, much to her confusion followed by amusement. It was then that Scout had declared a party on the base for that night, a hurrah after their victory or to drown their sorrows on a loss, but to celebrate their leave from the hot desert base nonetheless.

None had argued.

 

Scout's turntable hauled from his room and set up on the porch, The Rolling Stones blared out of its speakers into the desert night. Not far from the entrance to the base, a small bonfire burned tended by Pyro, who had raided his coworkers' labs for interesting chemicals to throw in the fire. Some lithium chloride from Engineer's workshop, some boric acid and potassium chloride from the infirmary, , some salt from the mess, and some Borax from the cleaning closet all sat on a flat stone he had found for a table, and he was taking turns adding each material and watching the colours shift through dark magentas, blues, yellows, and purple hues. What he wouldn't give for some copper sulfate.

Atop one of the battlements, a sharp _whack_ sounded in the near-darknesss. “BONK!” Scout crowed, winding up the paddle in his hands for another strike. The youngest mercenary stood there barefoot, his hat backwards, his dogtags jingling with his movement, and a pair of boxers slung loosely around his hips. They couldn't possibly have been his, barely hugging his skin to cling to him, though he certainly couldn't remember whose underwear he was in. He wore nothing else, save for the bright blush of a man who'd been going hard since the first bottle was cracked, and who craved as raucious a party as possible.

Demoman hollered in pain, the target and victim of Scout's abuse, clutching his backside as he danced a bit to work the sharp agony out of his ass. Turning on his assailant, the one-eyed Scot, wearing naught but his favourite kilt, his sporran stashing a flask of bourbon he'd taken time to fill at the drink table, rounded on the younger man, his own makeshift paddle brandished in two hands. The younger man's eyes went wide and he turned on his heel, dashing away before he could get his comeuppance.

Rounding the corner, Soldier skidded to a halt just in time for the younger man to slam directly into his chest. He stood clad in only a wifebeater and his boxers, blue cotton spangled with white stars. His shovel clutched in one hand, a cigar between his teeth, he grinned wide as Scout backpedaled, stuck between his two opponents.

“Aw shit.”

 

Inside, under the thrum of rock outside, the gentle strains of Engineer's guitar hummed warmly through the mess, the Texan strumming as he sang a gentle, lilting tune to his audience of Sniper and Spy around the giant bowl of dip the team had almost finished demolishing. A large table on one side of the room was occupied with all sorts of bottles in various states of emptiness, and a large group of shot glasses sticky with the remnants of what they had once contained, used several times over by multiple mouths. A few empty cups sat turned on their sides on the table, along with a stack of fresh ones ready to go. A cooler half-full of mostly-melted ice leaned against the table on the floor, a few cans of Bonk bobbing around along the water's surface.

When the last lines of the song had been sung, and the last notes had hummed into the air, unravelling away into whispers and nothing, the two lanky men smiled warmly at their companion and set their drinks down to applaud.

“Aww, shucks,” the smaller mercenary replied, tipping his hat, what little he was left in. At some point, his chaps had become a good idea, but his overalls had ceased to, and he was sure the incident had involved Scout and those crazy Bonk bombs he was passing around like water. A few hours in, he was still surprised he could even hold the guitar, let alone play it. He'd hit that boozy equilibrium he was most comfortable with, and set the instrument down in its case on the table beside him.

“Lovely, mon ami,” Spy commented, punctuating with a sip from his cup. Straight gin, top shelf. He was glad his teammates had taken requests and written them down before making their 'hooch run', as they called it.

“Right fine song, Truckie. You've one 'ell of a voice on ya,” Sniper echoed, raising his beer in a toast.

“You fellas are gonna make me blush,” came Engineer's reply, snagging his beer and clinking it against Sniper's, then lightly bumping Spy's cup.

They shared a drink, and a laugh, the boozy haze barely keeping any of them standing steadily, only to laugh again when they heard Scout screaming from the battlement outside.  
“Any 'a you fellas seen the Doc or Heavy? I haven't seen 'em since the Bonk bombs and then when Doc and Demo decided to try the boot.”

“I still have difficulty believing you had a glass shaped like a boot in the first place, much less the size of one,” Spy observed, slurring a bit.

“I still can't believe they both managed to drink that whole thing.” Sniper sniffed a bit, then finished his bottle, setting it on the counter.

“You forget, Bushman. Demo may be a raging alcoholic, but the Doctor is German. It is just as much his blood as the Scotsman's, moreso because the challenge was beer.”

“I reckon Spy's right, but every man's got his limits. I hope he's alright. He was goin' pretty hard pretty early, an I ain't seen 'im in a while.”

“Think Heavy went off to find 'im a while ago, if I remember right. Things get blurry right around the point I ended up in Spook 'ere's trousers.” Sniper motioned down to the pants he wore, which, indeed, were the Spy's pin-striped slacks, just slightly too tight and short for the lanky Australian.

“The two of you are terribly easy to coerce when inebriated,” Spy commented with a smirk, leaning against the counter and crossing his bare, hairy legs, the tails of his shirt coming down just past the bottoms of his boxer-briefs. “Besides, Heavy wasn't partaking nearly as heavily as the rest of us, of you.” He pointed a wobbling finger at his companions, eyeing them as if he'd made a rather sharp, clever remark, and laughed. “So the Doctor is in good hands.”

 

Medic was in good hands. Big, warm, strong hands, which held him as his body craned backward over the arm of the rec room couch. Loopy, frame-shaking laughter burst forth from him. His spectacles lost to the four winds, he smiled hazily up at the big Russian whose arms cradled his back to keep him from falling over, unsure whether the blurriness that marred his handsome face was because of alcohol, myopia, or the rush of pheromones that had just slammed him in the junk.

The doctor was plastered. Clad, somehow, in only his boxers and a tie, he was giggling at his own silly behaviour. He had swooned over the arm of the couch, intent on landing on it, when Heavy had removed his shirt after discovering the hamburger he'd been eating had dripped quite a bit of grease and assorted condiments onto the blue cotton that covered his large torso. The big man's instinct to preserve the drunken German's well-being, however, had prevented the ultimately unperilous fall when he caught him mid-swoon, hand to his forehead like the daintiest of ladies.

This had left them in an awkward position, Medic looking up at Heavy with wide, barely-seeing eyes, the beery, pink flush across his cheeks and nose darkening as he tittered in an attempt to play off the sudden and fierce arousal he was feeling. The big man was glorious, a mighty glacier cast in flesh and muscle, a halo of fur cresting his shoulders, arms, chest, belly; Medic's eyes followed it all, unsure where to focus, the lush forest of the giant's body hair nearly aglow in the dim light of the single lamp illuminating the room. Everything about Heavy looked soft, and fuzzy, and comfortable. The thick, mighty muscles of his arms, the broad, strong shoulders, the wide, stubbly jaw, all conveyed a warmth and safeness as he lay there in his arms, with an undercurrent of immense brutality, of almighty strength.

Heavy looked down at the supine doctor in his arms, shrill, unhinged, nervous laughter rattling out of him, blue eyes studying him every time they hazarded a glance. He was a sight, mostly-naked, chest and belly hair slightly matted down in the soft sheen of sweat that covered the warm-bodied drunk. The big man smiled fondly at the near-boneless man, his giggling somewhat infectious. He couldn't help but chuckle, himself.

At least, until he felt a warm, insistent pressure against his belly. His eyes went wide, realizing what it was, and he was paralyzed, unsure as to how to proceed. Awkwardness, like a force given form, blossomed between them, surpassing their forms, outgrowing the room itself, until the very base itself had transmuted into awkward made manifest. Their eyes locked.

Medic, had he been in a far clearer, sober state, would have apologized, come up with some facts about how arousal is a thing that happens randomly, appealed to Heavy's own personal experience. Surely he'd had an awkward boner. Every man had. He would've excused himself, gone to his room, let his heart stop trying to punch its way through his ribs, and maybe, maybe masturbated.

Instead, any sense or sanity had been drained out of him, verbal filters a long lost memory of a man far more sensible than the limp, rubbery creature that lay in Heavy's arms. Instead, he gulped, and arched an eyebrow invitingly at the larger man. “You know, Heavy, if you wanted to hold me in your arms all night you should have just asked.”

Heavy looked down at the doctor, then at his own arms holding him up, and hurriedly, gently, set him down with a mumbled apology. He didn't really know what to do, a haze of peach bellini still crowning his head. “Am sorry, did not mean--”  
“No need to be sorry, mein Heavy!” the doctor interrupted, sloppily flailing his way into a sitting position and grabbing the bigger man by his belt, dragging him down to the couch with him. The big man had the presence of mind to move to the side as he fell, landing beside the smaller man. “I never said I wanted you to stop. Just that you didn't need as flimsy an excuse of saving me from the horrible fate of falling onto the soft furniture.” He chuckled darkly, the sound coming out more of a heavy giggle than a laugh of real menace.

“Did not want Doktor to land badly, hurt himself,” Heavy maintained, half-lying. “You are very drunk, Doktor. Not so agile.”

“I am drunk, ja, and maybe not agile. It is a good thing I have mein big, strong, bär here to hold me.” Medic blundered, climbing atop Heavy, straddling one of his legs and bringing their faces inches from each other. His gaze would have been sultry, were he able to focus his eyes, or hold himself up steadily.

To a sober man, he would have been hilarious. To Heavy, in his state, he couldn't help but let his eyes flick from the other man's lips back up to the unfocused, half-lidded blue staring back at him, burning through his remaining inhibitions. Heavy soon found his eyes wandering lower, past those lips wrapped around impossibly white teeth in a grin, to the expanse of his fuzzy chest and belly, to the blue boxers he wore, still tented with the German's ardor. “Big, strong, bear?” was the only thing he could croak out, suddenly feeling very warm in spite of his missing shirt.

“Ja, so handsome, too.” Leaning in, the doctor was so close their noses almost brushed, and Heavy could smell the beer on his breath, his head swimming, his own body reacting to the closeness and the attractive man practically in his lap, clearly, sloppily, hitting on him. His big hands reached up and slid around the slimmer man's waist, rough fingers tracing warm, smooth skin, sliding down to his narrow hips.

“Handsome?” he asked, teasingly this time, a smirk crossing his wide mouth, tugging at the corner of his lip.

Medic lifted a hand to the bigger man's jaw. “So very handsome.” The kiss was no surprise by this point, but the ferocity of it was. It was less a contact of lips and tongue more than a desperate, grunting attempt at joining at the mouth. Heavy tasted of peaches, burning, and something a bit more indescribable, with an undercurrent of the hamburger he had just devoured. Hands roved, bodies pressed together, hips ground into each other without apprehension.

When they finally parted, Heavy's hand was squeezing Medic's backside appreciatively. The doctor, arms around his shoulders, put on his best attempt at a smouldering look. “So, mein kuschelbär, maybe you'd like to,” he rolled his hips against the giant below him, squinting around the room to see how isolated they were,” go somewhere?”

Heavy thought a moment, then gave the thinner man another squeeze. “How about down?”

**Author's Note:**

> requested by Tumblr user tf2-daesdemona


End file.
